


Viewer Discretion Advised

by KissTheBoy7



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Blow Jobs, Come Marking, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, Face-Fucking, Fisting, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, Hickeys, Humor, Kink Meme, Knifeplay, M/M, Multi, Public Sex, Riding, Rimming, Rough Sex, S&M, Voice Kink, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 11:14:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissTheBoy7/pseuds/KissTheBoy7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Grantaire aren't nearly as subtle as they think they are about the whole "hookup" thing and Les Amis discover, one by one, exactly how advanced their sex life is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bossuet

**Author's Note:**

> For this prompt on the Kink Meme: http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11823.html?thread=3427631#t3427631

It begins, of course, with Bossuet - "It's just my luck," he moans later, face buried in Musichetta's shoulder as Joly frantically Googles the act he'd just described - who happens to owe Grantaire beer money.

He's just dropping by to pay him back, that's all, he's not even going to stay for a drink this time because the last time he'd knocked over the easel and spilled a brand new bucket of blue paint across the canvas in the first ten minutes of his visit and Grantaire had nearly cried because  _"that's my concentration piece for the semester you oaf how dare you-"_ Needless to say, he's not eager to repeat the incident. He knocks politely once, listening for any promising footsteps before remembering that it's three in the afternoon and Grantaire is probably passed out on the couch with bottle in hand and his earbuds falling out.

So he pushes the door in, intending to leave the money on the counter, and - 

_Holy mother of God where is his HAND?!_

Grantaire is on the couch alright, but he's turned so that he's bent nearly in half, knees digging into the cushions pushed as far apart as they will go and Bossuet has to ask Joly if people can really  _be_ that flexible. (he gets a more than educational answer, and that almost makes up for it) Now, though, he feels like he might faint or throw up or both. Kneeling between those impossibly spread legs is none other than Enjolras, and although he is turned from the door Bossuet imagines he is fixing that infamous look of fiery concentration on- on- on the place where his wrist stops and his hand disappears up into Grantaire, who whimpers and trembles and looks like he's  _falling apart._

Bossuet, gentle Bossuet, backs out of the apartment so fast that he trips and lands on his ass on the doormat, nearly chipping his tailbone in the process.

He forgets to shut the door in his race down the stairs.


	2. Joly

 

Joly, being Joly, spends the next three days extensively researching everything to do with fisting, as he's quickly learned it's called.

"That can't be sanitary," he says, gnawing his lip bloody curled up to his lover's side, staring at the black and white photograph on his laptop screen before him as if he can make it not true. Three days has been more than long enough for him to exhaust online resources and Musichetta has had to stop him more than once from taking out x-rated books in the library to further his education. Google images alone had made him faint, and now neither of his lovers will let him alone for more than an hour at a time out of some kind of concerned amusement. The more he reads, the more horribly fascinating the whole subject is, and the further he's convinced that he ought to intervene.

This is how he finds himself standing skittishly on Enjolras' doorstep at seven in the morning on a Sunday with a box of latex gloves in hand, complete with a brand new set of nail clippers and an enormous tube of lube. If either of them will listen to him and be rational, it's Enjolras. (although Joly had presumed Enjolras to be of sound mind before all of this, too, so perhaps his judgement is off)

If his friends are going to engage in  _those_ sorts of activities, then they were damn well going to do it safely!

He raises his knuckles to rap on the door and stops dead when he hears the noise. At first it's faint, a loud thump that Joly can almost pretend he never heard. He starts to knock again, but it's repeated, and the sound is unmistakable- something he's heard too many times before, and intimately.

"You love it, don't you? FIlthy whore." Enjolras' voice is low and commanding even now, but the suggestion has Joly blushing to the roots of his hair. Another loud thud and a groan which sounds uncomfortably like R's. "You love being  _fucked-"_ Thrust, thud, whimper. "Like the slut you are. Begging for my cock."

"Please," Grantaire begs raggedly. There's no telling how long they've been at this but it sounds as though it's been hours, long, torturous hours and Joly had never imagined such profanities spewing from the severe golden boy's mouth before. "Fuck, Apollo-"

"Say my  _name_ ," comes an almost feral growl, and Joly hears Grantaire positively  _slammed_ into the kitchen counter, utensils rattling. That's quite enough for him.

"Enjolras!" The answering keen echoes down the hallway after him as he backs away. He'll come back tomorrow, he tells himself, knowing full well that he won't ever be able to look Enjolras in the face ever again.

The gloves are stashed under his bed in case of emergencies. He puts the other items in the bathroom for convenient use. Musichetta and Bossuet aren't even awake yet.


	3. Combeferre

 

Unfortunately for Combeferre, he gets no warning at all. He stumbles upon them in the back of the library completely by accident, and for all that he scolds himself for being so narrow-minded he still can't help but be a tiny bit uncomfortable with what he's had to witness.

It's common knowledge, at this point, that Enjolras and Grantaire are fucking. And if it's not then it should be, because they're not half as subtle about it as they think. Grantaire has been hopelessly in love with Enjolras from day one, so it comes as no surprise, and Eponine herself has rolled her eyes at the snarking exchanged between the two of them at get-togethers because  _really, who do they think they're fooling._  It goes unspoken, except for Courfeyrac's unseemly wagers and colorful musings, that nobody has a problem with this and that at some point, they'll come out and tell their friends directly that they're in a relationship. If you could even call it that.

So nobody thinks about it too hard (except, Combeferre sometimes suspects, Courfeyrac) and lets it be. Combeferre in particular is practiced in the art of quietly looking the other way.. He's got plenty of court cases to memorize, textbooks to read-

Which is difficult when your best friend is getting a blowjob in the back of the campus library, precisely in front of the book that you need to check out.

His first bemused thought is that Grantaire hardly qualifies as a student with his attendance record, and he's never seen the drunk in the library before or anywhere remotely close to it. His second is that this, somehow, is the first time he's seen Enjolras' penis in all the years they're known each other, including four in which they shared a room and a shower.

Right now he's got his head tipped back, golden hair slipping from it's tie (not that he's apt to care right now) and eyebrows furrowed as he drives relentlessly forward into Grantaire's eager mouth. The cynic is on his knees before him, groveling as he often does when he's had one too many shots to care how obnoxious he is about his feelings for the man whose cock is currently halfway down his throat. Long fingers are tangled tightly in hid hair and God, but that has to be painful doesn't it?

Combeferre shakes his head, feeling a flush rise slowly on his face. He really shouldn't be watching it. Who knows if Grantaire would give a damn, but Enjolras definitely would, and Enjolras was a frightening sight when he was angry. They really deserved privacy-

He blinks, hard, as Enjolras jerks his head back and his flushed cock falls obscenely from the other man's lips, connected by a thin strand of saliva. And he can't seem to look away.

Grantaire is breathing something filthy up at him, eyes dark and partially obscured by the inky curls falling into his eyes as he stares lustfully at the cock before him. He looks like he wants nothing more than to swallow him down again, and Combeferre hurries to push that thought from his mind. He's about to leave when Enjolras growls, fisting his cock, and in several quick strokes-

His cum splatters across Grantaire's cheekbones, painting his eyelids, his lips, his chin. The cynic makes a desperate noise that shouldn't be legal in a public setting and licks as much as he can from around his mouth and Combeferre decides that he doesn't need anything after all.

If his search history is full of gay porn the next morning, no one is the wiser.


	4. Feuilly

 

Feuilly arrives back in town on a Friday, and is greeted by all of the Amis with open arms. He's got a duffel bag over his shoulder and an eye out for Bahorel, whom he has a standing arrangement with- if he isn't in jail when he comes on one of his increasingly rare visits, Feuilly is free to stay in his spare room for as long as he likes.

But this particular weekend Bahorel apparently  _has_ managed to land himself an overnight at the stations, and none of them has the cash to bail him out. So, once the festivities are over and everyone has a few drinks in them, he finds himself trudging along behind his second choice.

Enjolras has always been fond of him. They'd grown up on the same street, although Enjolras had gone to some snooty private school rather than the local one, but they've stayed in touch and it was always nice to see his oldest friend. Of all the Amis, he had the deepest respect for Enjolras, for all that he comes from money he hasn't failed to use that to his advantage. Whether or not his parents know that he's been funneling their bank accounts to charity for years is a mystery, but Feuilly suspects not. And as someone who had lived on food stamps for most of his childhood, he appreciates his friend's relentless efforts more than he can say.

That being said, he's never really pegged Enjolras as a sexual being. Maybe it's just that he'd never shown an interest in anyone, despite claims that he was "definitely gay" in his freshman year of college, which had been doubly amusing because Feuilly had managed to get him drunk in the process of explaining to him that vodka had in fact been an invention of the Poles. Enjolras had always simply been there, a brooding presence prone to fits of passionate fervor for one cause or another. He had no need of a lover.

Of course, this was absurd, and he really ought not to have investigated the things that went bump in the night.

All Feuilly wants is a glass of water and maybe a vitamin C tablet. He's got a persistent tickle in his throat, and it might just be allergies but you can never be too careful when you're absolutely out of sick days. He's padding out to the kitchen to get some when movement catches his eye, and despite his better judgement he doubles back to ogle at the dimly lit sight before him.

He doesn't recall Grantaire coming in but there he is, sprawled out on Enjolras bed, head thrown back and mouth open and panting as he clutches at the blonde's hips. Enjolras sinks down on his cock viciously, biting words at him that Feuilly can hardly comprehend are coming out of  _Enjolras' mouth._

It takes him a moment to collect himself, but somehow he manages to tear himself away and dive into bed, pulling the covers over his head. The wall between their bedrooms isn't quite thick enough to stifle the noise.

"En- Enjolr- ahhh-"

"Shut up. Fuck me. What are your fucking hands for, Grantaire,  _fuck me."_

"I- Oh, God, Enjolras- I can't- you're so tight-"

"If you can't fuck me harder than that I might as well get out the vibrator."

" _Lord-"_

The creaking goes on well into the early hours of the morning. From what he can tell, they'd gone at least four times, and the quiet doesn't necessarily mean they're quite done. Feuilly is awake through it all, eyes wide, curled into himself as he wonders if anyone else has any idea that Enjolras is half as filthy as he's learned tonight.

 


	5. Jehan

 

Later on, when all of this has come to light, Jehan will consider himself lucky to have walked in on what he did. Because compared to the others, it was relatively tame, and he's been saved quite a bit of mental scarring considering what Marius has been whining about.

Jehan is one of those people that you just instinctively know you can trust. Even Grantaire, who is possibly the most jaded and stubbornly faithless men on the planet - maybe Enjolras thinks he can fuck it into him, but Jehan would rather assume that he secretly loves Grantaire just as much as Grantaire loves him - has forked over a key to his apartment for Jehan's collection. Which he uses, often.

There's nothing like fresh flowers to brighten a room. He's tried telling them this, of course, all of them countless times but everyone always says they  _don't have time for flowers, Jehan._ He, however, has plenty of time for flowers. And every Sunday he makes his rounds, with Enjolras first on the list, to tend to the ones he'd begun growing on his patio whether he likes it or not.

The door is locked and the apartment silent. It certainly appears empty. Jehan makes for the patio door, his floral print watering can swinging merrily and sloshing about at his side. He hums a cheerful tune, thinking about flowers, about love, about what he's going to eat for dinner tonight and whether or not Courfeyrac has plans because if he doesn't, and probably even if he does, Jehan is going to light a few candles and recite the poetry he'd scribbled on a napkin on the bus ride here and it's going to be nothing short of completely and utterly  _romantic-_

The whimper that sounds through the apartment then is anything but romantic.

Frowning, the lithe poet twists and furrows his eyebrows at the mouth of the hall that he knows leads to Enjolras' bedroom. Could that be...? A smile blooms on his face at the very thought. Setting the watering can beside the patio door with a gentle pat and a kiss blown to the flowers outside, he pads as stealthily as he can back towards the source of the faint noises.

He has a hunch and it pays off - yes, there is Grantaire, his dark, wild curls unmistakable, his back pale and arched as he lies sideways on the mattress, obscuring Enjolras from view. His head is bent forward, toes curled, but even in the dimness Jehan can make out Enjolras feet poking out above Grantaire's head.

Little shudders and groans wrack Grantaire's bare body, so vulnerable and responsive, but he presses valiantly on. There can be no doubt as to what they're doing- standing on his tiptoes while doing his best to remain concealed beyond the doorframe, Jehan sees a blonde head bobbing languidly, delicate hands gripping muscular thighs, and wants to swoon despite the musk on the air. Of all of the things these two had been expected of doing in bed, this is the most consensual, requires the most trust, is the most promising! And even as pink dusts the poet's fair cheeks, he fights the urge to wrap them both in his arms and proclaim his sincere congratulations on their budding relationship.

Grantaire breaks away suddenly, gasping, and says something urgent and muffled against Enjolras thigh. A hand pushes his head back down insistently, and the slurping, sucking, panting is suddenly loud enough that Jehan remembers this isn't something he ought to be intruding on.

Giddy, he scampers back out to the patio and his flowers, and as he waters them he fantasizes about calligraphy and wedding invitations.

He really ought not tell anybody. Not even Courfeyrac. But Lord, this has been such a long time coming.


	6. Bahorel

 

Bahorel has always really loved hands. He loves Feuilly's hands, in particular, as calloused as they are because even as work-weary as he is he still has a hidden depth to him, and those hands (as big as his) hold a paintbrush so gently, so delicately, moving with a grace that Bahorel can hardly comprehend.

Of course, he has no way to  _voice_ any of these confusing feelings, but he supposes Feuilly probably knows anyways. They've always understood each other on some fundamental level, and he cherishes every chance he has to see the working man. So he's doubly pissed when he finds out that he's missed his latest visit and all for some stupid barfight.

He blames Grantaire, because it's easier than blaming himself and feeling uncomfortable, and he really wants to sock someone in the arm. The drunk had declined his invitation to have a drink with him that night for whatever unknown reason. (He'd heard muffled groans in the background and assumed that he was interrupting a booty call, snorting and telling Grantaire that whatever chick he'd brought home sounds like a dyke.) Grantaire is usually a pretty good target for that sort of thing, and he takes it well. He might not even punch him back, but either way it will be nice to see at least one of his friends.

He refuses to think that he is lonely. He's not  _lonely_ at all. He's just itching to start a brawl.

With this firmly in mind, he marches up to Grantaire's apartment fully intending to lock him in a chokehold and tackle him to the ground as soon as he finds him. He bursts through the door (he may or may not have just damaged the hinges, but hell if he has the money to fix them so he hopes Grantaire won't notice) and into the cynic's apartment, stalking about on the lookout for his prey.

Now is a good time to take a short interlude in order to absorb the fact that Bahorel sees far less of Enjolras than any of the rest of the amis. He's so far out of the loop, and so oblivious, and so very good at overlooking the finer details in situations like these, that at this point he has no idea whatsoever that Enjolras even has a sex drive.

When he opens the door to their bedroom, he finds out.

"Please- one more-" Grantaire is gasping from where he's pinned, his torso flat against the bedspread as Enjolras bends him over it, three of the fingers on his other hand thrusting brutally up inside him and crooking in the most obscene manner. Bahorel makes a strangled sound that neither of them seems to hear, pressing one of his enormous hands to his heart just to check that it hasn't stopped. While he's trying to find his words, Enjolras leans forward and smirks against the other man's tailbone.

"I want to feel you come," he whispers, husky voice intoxicating, and holy hell Bahorel wasn't even aware of how gay sex  _worked_ until now. He's not sure whether or not he really wanted to know, either. Enjolras continues, "No more fingers. I have an idea."

Apparently, this is new territory for them as well. Grantaire twists, trying to see what Enjolras is doing behind him. A thin sheen of sweat coats his back, or what Bahorel can see of it, and his curls are damp with it, matted down. Enjolras withdraws his fingers- they make a sickening squishing sound in the process that makes the man in the doorway want to vomit - and, to Bahorel's utter horror, lowers his mouth to the hole they'd just vacated.

His tongue flicks over the entrance, dipping inside and Grantaire makes some sound between a squeak and a mewl and that is  _the last straw._

"YOUR MOUTH DOESN'T GO THERE!"


	7. Marius and Cosette

 

 

With all of the commotion that Bahorel made when he came sprinting into their living room yesterday, yelling about tongues and arseholes and things that made Marius blush like a schoolgirl and Cosette cover her mouth to hide her laughter, they should have known that they would be next.

The notorious couple - or whatever they were calling themselves - had apparently been up to a lot of shenanigans lately. There were murmurings from all corners of their group, about clandestine encounters and the subsequent mental scars. (and that was putting it politely) Cosette, for her part, is just glad that Grantaire has stopped pining and gotten on with it. As for Marius, well, he's a little fainter at heart. He doesn't care so much for tales of the sort of sex he's repeatedly vowed never to engage in (he'd been drunk, and Courfeyrac and his wily ways had come up several times, and knowing their history Cosette has a fair idea that her fiancee has already done his fair share of experimenting anyways) and he tells them so. Many times. Enough times that Cosette has to hit him over the head with their new phone book to make him shut up.

Anyways, their apartment was actually furnished now and the welcome mat was officially in place. It was time for the housewarming party.

It was meant to be a quaint affair. A potluck dinner, a movie marathon, maybe a few drinks. (supplied by Courfeyrac, despite Jehan's gentle chiding) (he'd been placated with a kiss or two or three while everyone looked away smiling because who could resist smiling with  _Jehan_ present) Of course, with Courfeyrac and his liquor to account for, it was perhaps inevitable that things would get out of hand.

Which Cosette was fine with. Marius spent the majority of the night flitting about and talking to everyone, making  _sure_ they were all using coasters on the new coffee table and stopping periodically to give his wife an enthusiastic kiss. They still get catcalls every time, despite the five years that have gone into their relationship. Marius pretends to hate it, but she knows that he enjoys it.  _Just another chance to show you off_ he'll whisper, and she'll grin, reveling in how lovestruck she feels after all this time, and they'll fall into bed or some domestic equivalent because couples knitting is actually way more fun than it sounds.

But they hadn't abandoned their recreational sex life entirely quite yet. Cosette wasn't anywhere close to ready for a baby and Lord knew that Papa Valjean wasn't ready to hear his precious daughter had an active sex life. Come to think of it, Marius might not even know what to do with the spawn once he'd created it. Condoms it was.

When the majority of their friends had passed out in their seats, pleasantly intoxicated, and with the Goblet of Fire still playing in the background (Courfeyrac had spent half of the movie curled around Jehan, shouting and pointing a wand that nobody remembered him bringing at the screen each time one of the Slytherins made it on screen- he insisted he was Harry Potter and at some point Jehan had found a sharpie and drawn him a scar out of tiny, illegible words that were probably filthy judging by the hue of his face and the way he'd been giggling) Cosette took Marius by the wrist and, in a few hushed whispers, they'd slipped away towards the bedroom. Unfortunately for them, they weren't the last ones awake - nor were they the first to have this idea.

They haven't made it to the bed, which Marius appreciates loudly the next day. Enjolras has Grantaire pinned to the wall just inside the bathroom, and - when Cosette throws an arm out to stop her lover before they can really stumble in on the pair - neither one of them seems likely to move anytime soon. Enjolras is  _drunk,_ not as drunk as Grantaire but certainly more so than Cosette had ever imagined him being. He must be, or he wouldn't be saying the things he is.

"-want me to fuck you, don't you?" The first words they tune in on, low and seductive, bring a flush to Cosette's cheeks with their vulgarity. She stays put, although Marius looks vaguely like a deer caught in the headlights, staring in horror as they move minutely together against the bathroom wall.

Grantaire's forehead is pressed to the wall, his chest heaving with his labored breath and his wrists twisting uselessly in Enjolras' iron grip behind his back. He bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut, nodding fervently, hanging on every word.

"So hard we wake the lot of them up with your screaming." The curve of a smirk is visible in the glow of the nightlight Marius had insisted on plugging into the outlet by the bathroom sink. There's a rustle of movement lower down and Cosette's eyes fall to the open front of Grantaire's pants, where Enjolras' other hand has disappeared. He presses up against the back of him, hips moving in a slow gyration against the curve of his- ohh... "Make you beg to come. Do you want to come?"

"Yes," the other gasps raggedly. He looks like he's about to have a seizure.  _Marius_ looks like he's about to have a seizure the longer he listens, his face twisting, and Cosette thinks that she really ought to drag him away before he interrupts them or something equally stupid. "Yes, God, Enjolras, you know I do-"

"Not yet," Enjolras purrs, biting onto his neck and moving his hand in a way that makes the other man choke on his words. He hums, nuzzling up to his ear again. "Mmm... I'll have you right here against the wall. Keep you right on the edge, so close..."

He continues on that vein, to Cosette's knowledge, but Marius' face is an alarming shade of green now so she tears her eyes away in bemusement and hauls him back into the living room, shushing him and promising him that she'll bleach the whole bathroom tomorrow. She stays up with him until four and they have coffee, and when Enjolras and Grantaire finally emerge an hour later and take their leave looking suspiciously sated, Marius glared balefully at their backs.

At least they hadn't had to see either of their penises, right? She tries to find the bright side, for Marius' sake. But he just doesn't see it that way.


	8. Courfeyrac

 

It's hilariously ironic how much effort Courfeyrac has to exert just to stumble upon his friends having kinky sex.

By now it's common knowledge that Grantaire and Enjolras have an active sex life. Courfeyrac spends a weekend hearing all about his friend's traumatizing encounters, a shit-eating grin on his face that only grows the more he learns. He takes to badgering Marius in particular, because he makes the most delightful faces every time he's reminded. But eventually his former roommate (with benefits - don't tell Cosette!) kicks him out, bright red and glaring daggers. Of course he has nothing better to do than hunt the golden couple down and congratulate them on the sex.

He supposes he's a little jealous. Not of the sex being had, because Courfeyrac would never begrudge anybody sex with either of those boys,  _especially_ Enjolras with that ass he doesn't seem to know he has. But how, how on earth, was he the only one who hadn't caught them at it?

It has to be a cruel joke. Fate is playing tricks on him. He laments this to Eponine, who simply snorts and snarks something about how many years she'd had to listen to Grantaire's depraved fantasies from his spare bedroom after her parents had kicked her out, and he concedes defeat. However, it doesn't change his burning desire to experience what everyone else had. Hell! He's join in if they let him. The more the merrier, right?

(And if not, well, Jehan wouldn't approve anyways.)

The next five days are like a spy montage. Courfeyrac finds himself diving behind pedestrians, peeking around corners and abusing Jehan's spare key collection (which he will probably be in a lot of trouble for when the poet inevitably figures it out, but he'll worry about that later) far more often than should really be necessary. He follows Enjolras one day and Grantaire the next, and the closest he comes to getting a good look at them going at it was in the movie theater where he watched them make out three rows in front of him before slinking back home before Jehan got suspicious and accused him of interfering with their  "epic love saga" or whatever he was calling it now. He's pretty sure that if he looked around his own apartment there will be bits of poetry about the two scattered here and there on rose-colored post-it notes.

He's reluctant to admit defeat, though, and by Thursday he's ready to take the most drastic measures yet.

A pair of handcuffs dangle from the curly-haired youth's belt loops as he approaches the coffee shop Grantaire baristas at, a tube of lube tucked into his pocket.  _Gifts_ he says in his head, rehearsing a long-winded speech that he's rather proud of and imagining the absurdly grateful look that ought to be on Grantaire's face as he receives them. At the very least he'll probably tempt them into another night of romp in bed this way, and soon. He'll have to drill a peephole in Enjolras' bedroom wall in the meantime.

He's only half kidding. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

But Grantaire barely even notices him as he draws up to the counter. In fact, there's something off about his favorite lush. He's twitchy and anxious, glancing at the clock between orders and nearly spilling one woman's mocha down the front of her shirt. She gives him a dirty look as she pays and Grantaire doesn't even roll his eyes. There's something seriously wrong.

When Courfeyrac nears the counter he realizes it right away when Grantaire meets his eyes. He's clean shaven, and his eyes are clear of their usual haze. He's  _sober._

There's very little conversation to be made. He hands over his gifts and Grantaire just gives him a look before looking at the clock again. "Right. Thanks. Listen, I get off at two and I really need to be somewhere..."

Courfeyrac checks his phone. It's one-fifty five. He fights a smarmy grin and gives a theatrical bow as he retreats. "Wouldn't want to keep you."

Tonight is the night!

He wastes the next half an hour eating a piece of coffee cake and perusing a street vendor's selection of colorful roses. Jehan would like them, he thinks, and mentally engineers a complicated plan of action requiring a tuxedo, a Persian cat and a good three dozen of these plus the blood of a unicorn to get his boyfriend to try that Thing that Courfeyrac had always wanted to try.

By two-forty he's standing outside of Enjolras' apartment, feeling rather like he's reached a milestone. He only hopes he's chosen the right apartment. Twisting the key in the lock, he slips inside and shuts the door behind him as stealthily as possible.

Not even pausing to ask himself if he  _really_ wants to see two of his dearest friends in such a vulnerable, awkward position, he creeps down the hallway where the bedroom door is ajar. And regrets it, instantly.

He hadn't been mistaken. Tonight  _was_ the night. A very special night, apparently. A very special night to take things to the next level, a level even Courfeyrac has avoided thus far, and he's slept with more people than he can reasonably be proud of.

Enjolras is not the type of man he's ever imagined handcuffed to a bedpost before, but there he is - gloriously naked, fair hair splayed around him as he arches and grits his teeth. Grantaire straddles his thighs, still clothed from the waist down. His hands grip the blonde's hips tightly enough to bruise - Courfeyrac couldn't have asked for a better view but it's hard to want it like this.

"Safeword?" he hears Grantaire whisper, nervous as he had been earlier in the cafe. Courfeyrac belatedly realizes that this must be why; R had never been particularly responsible, and to be given  _this_ responsibility... Courfeyrac certainly didn't envy him. He lifts his mouth briefly from the angry row of bite marks he'd made, trailing all the way from Enjolras' ear to his navel. The man below him groans, his fingers flexing above him, wrists twisting experimentally.

There's no way this was Grantaire's idea. Grantaire, who had been head over heels for Enjolras almost before freshman year at university had begun. Grantaire who still referred to his lover as a Greek god no matter how many times he'd fucked him. He would never dare to propose such a thing.

"Liberty," Enjolras manages eventually. He swallows, hard, as Grantaire's hand comes down in a deliberate smack to his thigh, leaving a stinging red mark. Judging from the way his cock bobs, proud and full between them, he's enjoying this every bit as much as he probably anticipated.

Still, Courfeyrac's courage has fled him. He's not sure he wants to see anymore, but he's frozen in limbo, waiting helplessly for the next turn of events.

"Slut," the cynic hisses in return. A flush creeps into the other man's cheeks, the most gratifying shade of red he thinks he's ever seen. Grantaire must think so too because he has to force himself to tear his eyes away, to reach for an implement that the Irishman can't quite make out on the nightstand on the other side of the bed. Enjolras pants and tilts his hips upward, fighting what looks like the insane urge to beg him. "You're nothing but a pervert and a faggot. You want my cock, don't you."

"Yes," he whispers back, and  _oh Jesus he's getting off on this and holy fuck IS THAT A KNIFE?_

That is indeed a knife, blade glinting in Grantaire's hand, and if it weren't shaking minutely with nerves Courfeyrac is fairly certain he would have been forced to intervene. Enjolras has frozen, staring at the weapon hopefully, arching up in offering as it's brought down tentatively to his chest. He hisses as it bites him, and no, nope, okay, Courfeyrac is done here, he's seen more than enough.

He sneaks out of the apartment as quietly as possible and then sprints down the stairs and onto the street like a bat out of hell, trying to escape the disturbing images that have taken root in his mind.


	9. Finale

 

Grantaire presses the final Band-Aid to his lover's chest, smoothing the edges to ivory skin and glancing up at him for approval. As many times as he'd said it, seen him, he'll never get over how beautiful Enjolras is. The sweat has cooled on his skin by now and there are bruises forming on his wrists, his hips, that make Grantaire wince. He almost wishes that he hadn't agreed to this.

Almost.

"Thank you," the blonde murmurs eventually, bringing a hand up to cover Grantaire's on his chest. One pale blue eye cracks open, a crooked smile blooming on those marble features, and Grantair leans instinctively closer as butterflies erupt in his stomach. It never fails.

"No big deal." He tries to sound nonchalant with limited success. Enjolras' smirk grows and he rolls his eyes at him in return, lowering himself to the mattress beside him to curve an arm over his hip, pulling him closer. Face burrowed into his shoulder, his next words are muffled but only slightly sarcastic. "I live to serve."

He feels rather than sees Enjolras huff impatiently, rolling onto his side to twine his arms around R's neck.  _This,_ he's firmly convinced, is heaven. Some days Grantaire can't even believe he's so lucky. Most days, actually. Possibly all days. How many people on this earth had the pleasure of falling into bed and into love with a Greek god? As they wind around each other, the cynic presses his nose to the other's neck and inhales deeply, drinking him in in place of his customary brandy around this time of day. The sun is sinking orange in the corner of the window already, but he can't think of a way he'd rather spend the waking hours of the day than here in Enjolras' bed, indulging him in his most secret desires.

"I can feel you thinking," the other man drawls, pulling away at last. Grantaire follows after the movement, a discontent noise caught in his throat, unwilling to let him go just yet. Inky curls spill over Enjolras' shoulder and he gives up trying to wriggle away, tangling his fingers there instead. After a pause, he finally asks, "What are you thinking about?"

"Mmm... I love you." Grantaire sighs, because there's no way to deny it and he doesn't even want to. He never has, really, not since the beginning of their clandestine affair. Enjolras knew full well how he felt and he'll take what he can get. If it makes him uncomfortable, then he'll just have to deal, won't he?

After all, Grantaire gives great head.

Now though, the man whose arm he's clinging to like a baby koala is silent, mulling over his words. When the silence grows long R feels a flash of anxiety at the idea that he could take it all back in a moment. Especially now, after what he'd done for him, done  _to_ him...

If Apollo casts him out now, what will he do? Return to drinking and pining and painting and getting nowhere in his life at all, after two months of sleeping in the love of his life's bed? He knows he can't do that. He knows that he can never go back, but as for where he  _will_ end up, he has no idea.

Instead, Enjolras licks his lips and pronounces his words carefully. "... About that." Grantaire is still frozen, not daring even to open his eyes, although he knows Enjolras prefers if he looks at him while he talks. He can't face him now, not if there's a chance. Maybe if he just pretends hard enough- The blonde takes a deep breath, bracing himself, and still manages to sound self-conscious when he continues. "What would you say if I returned the sentiment?"

"Ah-" A startled noise escapes him at the admission. He pulls away at last, staring up at him with eyes wide in awe and disbelief, and does his very very best not to choke on his tongue. Enjolras looks completely out of his depth, but to his credit, he stares back with as much intensity as ever. "I- uh- oh..."

(Very intelligent, R. Gold star.)

Impatient for an answer, the other man cocks an eyebrow expectantly. He tugs lightly at the curls woven between his long fingers. "Well?"

Grantaire thaws slowly, a tentative smirk unfurling on his face. "Forgive me," he says, furrowing his eyebrows for effect. "I don't think I heard you. Come again?"

Enjolras narrows his eyes, but he's a good sport- probably because they both know that Grantaire has been waiting for this forever and a half and he deserves to savor the moment. He presses their foreheads together and kisses him chastely before replying, their lips brushing with every word. "I love you."

"I don't believe you." It escapes the drunk in a hushed, reverent whisper. Fingers brush at fresh bruises on narrow hips, legs tangle atop the sheets. The shadows grow longer by the minute. "Prove it."

With a groan, Apollo pushes himself up on one elbow and stares down at him in exasperation. "Be serious."

"I am being serious." He blinks and copies the motion, never dating to look away in case he disappears into the dreamscape. Because this must be a dream. A wonderful, amazing, perfect dream that he never wants to wake up from but a dream nonetheless. Grantaire is afraid to wake up, to go back to the miserable existence he lived in the real world, where Enjolras was an unattainable intern who occasionally frowned at him or plucked a bottle from his slack hands at parties when he was in danger of passing out on his feet, and he was just a washed up artist living on minimum wage. He  _could_ wake up any moment and it's terrifying, because he knows it will be with a hangover, most likely covered in paint and possibly vomit and possibly sex with someone who isn't this perfect man staring into his eyes.

He doesn't  _want_ anymore nights at the bar with Bahorel if it means leaving this behind. But this has to be too good to be true.

Enjolras is naked and here and loving him and pulling him with one hand in his hair and the other gripping his jaw into a furious kiss, and he doesn't care if it's a dream anymore. He's the soberest he's been in months and he doesn't even want a drink. Enjolras' lips are magic and fire and they drip passion, just like they do when he speaks, except this way he can transfer it directly into Grantaire's veins. Something has gone horribly right.

He doesn't want to stop it.

His fingers bury themselves in waves of blonde hair and his mouth is opening to that prying tongue, a startled moan that sounds like a sob escaping him, and Enjolras is rolling on top of him, silencing him effectively.

They make love for the first time on a Thursday night and afterwards, Grantaire shoots Eponine a sleepily ecstatic text before diving under the covers and snuggling up to his brand new boyfriend.

He wakes up to ten in return.

 

_fucking finally. if he breaks your heart tell him i'll break his face._ \- Ep

 

_I think you'll make a great couple._ \- Combeferre

 

_I'm so happy for you! Double date, breakfast at ten on Sunday? xoxo_ \- Cosette

 

_PLEASE SAY NO_ \- Marius

 

_i hope youre using protection!_ \- Joly

 

_hey congrats to you two good luck_ \- Bossuet

 

_Take care of him._ \- Feuilly

 

_drinks 2nite? on me_ \- Bahorel

 

_can i plan the wedding?! pleeeeease!_ \- Jehan

 

_PICS OR IT DIDNT HAPPEN_ \- Courfeyrac

 

Snorting, Grantaire shuts his phone off again and sets it aside. They can all wait until he's properly awake for replies, if they get any at all. When he turns back to Enjolras he's staring at him in fond amusement.

"Care to explain why Jehan felt the need to send me seventeen links to honeymoon destinations?"

"I may have let the cat out of the bag." He can't control the way his lips twitch upwards at the look on his boyfriend's face. It must be contagious, because Enjolras offers a wry grin in return and pulls him back into his arms, kissing him with a content sigh.

"You are wild," he mocks, murmuring the words against his lips before pulling back to press a finger to them. "What do I have to do to keep your big mouth shut?"

Grantaire sucks the finger into his mouth and mumbles around it, "I can think of a few ways..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow okay this wasn't supposed to be as long as it got... and the end, um, well, I have no real explanation the fluff just happened I'M NOT SORRY. I hope you all enjoyed it, especially my dearest OP - if you ever want something else written drop me a line and I'll see what I can do, eh?


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